


That which was promised

by mike_test123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Period-Typical Sexism, R Plus L Equals J, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mike_test123/pseuds/mike_test123
Summary: Even after the rebellion, as they bow in defeat before the dragons; the lions, stags and other beasts of the realm await another chance to brawl for the crown once more.To secure the survival of the Targaryen dynasty, King Rhaegar arranges the marriage between his son, the heir to the throne, and his younger sister, the future queen of the seven kingdoms.But what happens when firecankill a dragon?The future of the throne is left vacant and all the beasts close in for the seize.





	1. The Crown Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Just had an itch to try out this story idea. Will write and develop more if it proves consistently interesting (for myself and for potential readers)!
> 
> (title was hastily chosen lmao that was hard)

**I. Daenerys**

*  
*  
*

To the east was the view of the fluffy clouds scattered across blue skies, the lush green gardens below, and the specks that were ships sailing in the seas beyond.

To the west stood King’s Landing, its glorious edifices, towering and bold, casting shadows over the unwelcome sight of its vast slums.

From where she stood, leaning over the balcony of the tower, Daenerys carefully studied the landscape before her. Someday, she was to be its queen, and the queen of the seven kingdoms beyond.

She’d always spent a good length of her mornings on this exact spot, pondering at the same view, reflecting about the kind of queen she wanted to be. A queen that spoke and acted for the good of her people, a queen that served. But that was not what a queen was for, not in this kingdom.

“Daenerys, my love.”

Her thoughts interrupted by the voice, she spun on her heel to the sight of her betrothed, still handsome even with his messy silver hair and his violet eyes peeking through drooping eyelids.

“My prince.” Her tone was lifeless as she formed a lazy curtsey, discreetly turning her cheek when Aegon leaned down to kiss her lips.

“When are you going to give me a proper kiss?” He teased, his words a slight slur and his breath smelling strongly of alcohol.

Instead of answering the question, she retorted, “When are you going to stop your… lifestyle of promiscuity?”

He was rather clumsily dressed, sex stinking and stained on his clothes.

To think that _this_ was the future king of the seven kingdoms.

At her subtle look of disapproval, Aegon laughed drunkenly and shook his head at her. “We are young, Daenerys, but we won’t always be.” Making a face and shaking a finger at her, he scolded, “You’re always too… cautious and high-strung, youth is wasted on you, you know that? Why don’t you stop depriving yourself of life’s pleasures for once?”

The impulse to roll her eyes was strong, but Daenerys managed to keep her face straight.

Aegon idolized his uncle too much. The one they called the Red Viper. The prince before her may have inherited the Valyrian beauty of the Targaryens, but there was more Dornish in him than there was dragon.

“Listen,” He drawled out, slapping a hand on her shoulder to steady himself, “I’m hosting another gathering later this evening. Same time and place as always, and as always, you’re very welcome to join us.” He smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, as he probably couldn’t even feel his face.

Prying his fingers off her shoulder, she replied, “And as always, I respectfully decline your offer.” As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist to add in low snarl, “Your activities do not befit the reputation of the princess. No less prince, the _crown_ prince, need I remind you.”

Shrugging, unflinching from her disgusted tone, he said simply, “Suit yourself.” His shoulders sagged as he breathed out a heavy sigh at her. “Gods, what a dull wife you’ll turn out to be.”

She scoffed and left the balcony, her guards at her heels as she stormed down the halls.

She didn’t care what kind of wife she would turn out to be, because frankly, she didn’t care to be a wife at all. But that was all she would ever amount to. A queen in title, but in purpose, she would merely be a pretty little thing, for the kingdom to look at and for the king to fuck.

Every day, she only grew more and more irritated at the prospect of her marriage to Aegon, and he seemed to be of the same mind. As their wedding day approached, the more reckless, daring and bold he grew. Like a dragon that flew to the heavens and tried to touch the sun before its wings were clipped off, cursing it to slither on the ground forever.

What a pair they made as the future of the realm. They were mirror images of each other, yet they could not be more different; he and his carefree, reckless outlook in life, and she in her rigid, heedful one. But it didn’t matter how mismatched they were, it only mattered what they represented. In the eyes of the people, they were the embodiment of the Targaryen dynasty’s strength, a Valyrian prince and princess that the rebellion tried to strip the crown from, but failed.

In the midst of recovery from the war a decade and a half ago, there was no room for weakness in this family. A loveless marriage was a small price to pay to keep the dragons on the throne, to keep the lions, wolves and stags at their feet.

She came to a stop before tall mahogany doors, embellished with gold in the shape of her family sigil. Giving a light push, she let herself inside, leaving her guards to take their posts on either side of the door, beside the queen’s armored knights.

“Good morning, your grace.” Her voice was formal and respectful as she made a proper curtsey, a jarring contrast against her greeting to the prince earlier. But that was because she held only the sincerest respect and admiration for this member of the royal family.

“It’s just us, my dear. It’s only Elia when it’s just us.” The olive skinned beauty smiled sweetly at her as she gestured at the empty seat beside her for Daenerys to take.

As she finished her breakfast, she could feel a pressing topic looming in the air, what with Elia giving her a certain look, resting her chin on top of her laced fingers. When she set her utensils down, Elia finally opened her mouth to say, “Your sixteenth name day is near.”

Daenerys swallowed hard at what that meant. Her marriage to Aegon was also near.

As she stared down at her plate, she felt gentle hands take hers, prompting her to look up into Elia’s dark eyes.

“I know… that my son is…”

_Difficult? Reckless? Never satisfied?_

Knowing what Elia was trying to say, but was unable to, Daenerys placed her free hand on top of her queen’s, pressing caresses of reassurance over her slender fingers.

“It’s fine, Elia. I know my duty, and I will love and cherish your son. You must not worry.” Even as a somewhat practiced liar, she found it difficult not to flinch at her own words.

Elia’s smile did little to mask the pain in her eyes as she said, “I worry for your heart.”

Daenerys simply nodded, understanding the unspoken reason. She was promised to a man, whose nature would make him forget his promises to her.

“I love you, Daenerys. You’re like my own daughter.”

She inhaled sharply as she tried to ignore the heaviness that grew in her chest from the weight of Elia’s words. 

“I cannot bear for your heart to break.” Elia’s mouth trembled as she struggled to maintain her broken and quivering smile.

“I’ll be all right, I promise.” She said it with much more confidence this time, because she meant it. Because Aegon could not hurt her that way. Because she did not love him the way Elia loved Rhaegar.

And if Aegon were to truly follow in his uncle’s footsteps, he’d have more bastards than the storm lord, or any lord. Daenerys would not be scorned at his infidelity, but she would be furious at his recklessness that could threaten their family’s claim to the throne.

Somehow, she’d have to satisfy her betrothed with herself and her body alone, to make him lust for no one but her, to make him want to put a child in no one but her. That was her duty as future queen. That was the duty Elia herself failed to accomplish… and her failure had a name.

_Jon Snow._

She was told by lords and ladies alike that this _Snow_ could not be trusted, simply because he was a bastard, and bastards were greedy devils that covet over what cannot be theirs: their noble parent’s land, their power, and most of all, their name.

Although that’s not what the Dornish tell her, the look in their eyes are no different when their attention is brought to the product of Rhaegar’s unfaithfulness. No doubt because of their loyalty and love for their queen.

And with her own loyalty and love for Elia, she had long ago decided that Jon Snow was indeed better off banished to Winterfell. Granted enough mercy to live his days with his mother and her family, but cursed to never set foot in King’s Landing, never to set his sights on the iron throne, not while the crown prince lived.

A king’s bastard was a danger to the kingdoms, the Blackfyre rebellions were more than enough proof of that. It was fortunate that Rhaegar had only made that mistake once… But Daenerys did not know how many times Aegon would repeat it.

**  
Aegon only saw the now. He didn’t care about tomorrow, he only cared about the pleasures of the present. But for Daenerys, it was the future that was always in her thoughts, and always in her dreams.

She would be queen.

She was sure, not because her brother, the king, arranged for it, but because she saw it herself in her visions.

Targaryens had a gift of foresight, and that’s what frightened Daenerys so. She feared for the day that her dreams would come true.

And in her dreams, a bastard would come into her life.

No, that was no good. It was one bastard that had broken Elia’s fragile heart, and it would only take one bastard to break the future of the realm. She saw that in her dreams too, a broken realm that was ablaze with furious, unforgiving flames.

It was no coincidence that a bastard accompanied her visions of a raging fire. She knew then, that it was a bastard that would doom them all. A doom that would be her fault if she failed her duty, to satisfy her husband, to keep him from temptation, to keep him from fathering the sons that could destroy their family.

When she would wake, she will begin her duty.

To right the path of her betrothed.

To love and cherish him, to ensure that he lusted after no one else.

To extinguish the flames she saw in her dreams, to stop the world from burning.

But when she woke, it seemed that it was too late. The world was already on fire.

**  
To the east, blocking the fluffy clouds scattered across blue skies, were only clouds and clouds of smoke, rising from the gardens below.

There was nothing she could’ve done but watch in horror, for how long, she did not know. Just until the furious red flames dissipated into black smoke, and the black smoke faded into big grey clouds that enveloped the sky.

She felt sick to her stomach as she watched what remained of the grand dome in the center of the garden crumble to the ground.

Ashes. So many ashes from, she suspected, the building, the surrounding trees, the people she knew were inside, and most sickening of all, the prince.

The prince she vowed to commit herself to, wholly and devoutly, only mere moments ago.

As she ran down the tower, the crowd of people grew thicker until she was shoving her way past, her blockers apologizing in her wake as they realized who she was.

Running into a clear space circled by white cloaks, she stopped behind her brother, who was staring down at a frightened boy covered in soot. His hair and eyebrows were singed off and a cloak draped over his naked body.

Aegon’s cupbearer.

“Gone… Your Grace.” It was almost difficult to decipher his words through the dry croak of his voice.

“What happened?” She demanded all of a sudden, earning a brief glance of surprise from her brother over his shoulder.

She wasn’t sure when she had started crying, or why. Perhaps it was some of the smoke getting into her eyes, or the tight grip of her brother’s arm around her that made it hard to breathe, or the comprehension that slowly dawned on her that Aegon was dead.

She didn’t know what was more stupid. How stupidly intoxicated he had been, or how stupid he was to believe he wouldn’t burn by stepping into a pit of fire. Maybe there was more dragon than Dornish in him, after all. Because only dragons possessed that kind of madness, the madness that made them believe they were above flames, above death, and above the gods.

If only she’d known that her last encounter with him was the very last, perhaps she could have said something, done something. But what? She’d given up trying to talk caution into him long ago. After his first taste of alcohol, of exotic substances, of women, of men, he only thirsted more and more for life’s ecstasies, and slipped farther and farther away.

It was inevitable, then, for the gods to take him away so soon. But it was cruel the way they took him. A dragon, killed by fire.

The future of the kingdoms had been stripped of its dragon king, and she knew that the lions, snakes, and whatever beast that bowed until now, were getting ready to pounce. Not just for the seat of the throne, but for her hand in marriage… because while the destiny of the realm was changing, one thing remained the same.

Her fate to become queen.

Hushing her sobs and furiously wiping at her tears, she reminded herself that this was only the beginning.

The fire in her dreams had shown itself, but the bastard had yet to emerge.

 

*  
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	2. The son of a dragon king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost been a year since I published the first chapter, and I guess you could thank the horrendous season 8 for motivating me to spit out an update, though hastily written. Hope I can continue writing out of spite!
> 
> Recap of chapter 1: Dany has a dream of a future in flames, accompanied by a bastard, then Aegon dies in a fire, drunk

There was no body to burn for a proper funeral.

Under all the rubble and ash from the collapsed building, they couldn’t even find the prince’s remains. So they erected a statue in his memory, for the people to send their prayers to. And as was expected, the lords and ladies of Westeros travelled from far and wide to pay their respects as well.

_Respects._

Dany grimaced, a sour taste filling her mouth. There were only few who truly came to mourn as she did. The rest didn’t come for the prince.

They came for her.

Her title. Her name. Her hand.

**

The ceremony finished, Dany was herded back to her chambers. All she wanted was to be left alone, but her duties had not yet ended.

“I am deep in grieving, still. Are you unable to respect that?” Dany fought hard not to let the tears spill, nursing her glass of honeyed wine to keep her fidgeting fingers busy. “I do not wish to entertain those boys this evening.”

Littlefinger tutted disapprovingly. “Those _boys_ ,” he said, approaching her almost menacingly, “are the sons of the great lords, need I remind you, my princess? Not only are they heirs to their houses and the wealth of their families, they are also your new prospects for-“

“Don’t.” Her voice was stern. “Don’t say it.” She commanded, almost baring her teeth.

“Marriage.” He finished, unflinching.

The sound of shattering glass rang in her ears before she realized her hand was flung out in front of her, the glass she’d been holding now shards laid all over the floor.

“Goodness, your grace. Are you hurt?”

She wasn’t, to her disappointment. A perfect princess bride, gods forbid, would bear no ugly scars or wounds. She should’ve dropped and rolled herself all over the broken glass when she had the chance. But that chance vanished as she was whisked away to the next partition of her chambers.

“The feast will be starting shortly after nightfall. Do help the princess look her absolute best.” Littlefinger instructed her handmaids as he sat her down a stool, like she was merely a doll made for dress-up games and tea parties.

Before she could raise her voice in protest, a gleam caught her eye.

“I am not wearing that.” She blurted immediately, staring at the horror of a gown she was to don.

Bright red, sparkling in glitter and hundreds of rhinestones. Too many layers of fabric hanging down from the waist, and too few (or rather none at all) around the chest.

“Of course you are. The king sent it.” Littlefinger shrugged.

“Did my brother _choose_ it?” She questioned, unsuccessful at containing her irritation.

Oh, how absolutely brilliant of her brother. For assigning her dress matters to the man who tries to manage a whorehouse while he thinks no one is looking.

“Best hurry now, your grace. The princess must never be late.” He was gone before she could argue any further, signalling her handmaids to get to work instantly. It was futile to resist any more, she knew. The sooner the night was over, the better.

**

Throughout the castle, men and women, common and noble alike drank and cheered to the late prince Aegon Targaryen and his short but full life. A contrasting sight to the solemn service they held at the Sept earlier that day.

Daenerys felt too much like a fool to join in celebration. She felt too exposed, her breasts almost spilling out of her neckline. As much as she wanted to fold into herself, she squared her shoulders and forced her spine straight, just so she could afford modest breaths of air, which was all her corset allowed her.

But she forced on a smile, knowing the games of pretense had only just begun.

All throughout the night, each son of noble houses, great and small alike, approached her, offered her sweet words about her beauty and loveliness, and asked her for a dance.

Into the first hour since the feast began, she’d been told endlessly that her beauty was without compare. The heart shape of her face. Her purple irises and silver gold locks. One more word about them, she feared she’d have no control of gouging her eyes out of her sockets and yanking her hair off her head.

The sight and aroma of the banquet made her much too aware of the hollowness in her stomach, but it was all she could do to hold her breath to keep the seams of her dress from bursting.

Into the second hour, her feet had gone sore from all the dancing with the lordlings she wasn’t permitted to refuse. They touched her and held her too intimately, and their eyes always wandered from her lips down to her neck, then lower until she felt like a hole was being bored into her heart.

It was dizzying. Maddening.

And into the third and fourth hour, she’d been introduced to more names and faces and houses than she could ever care to remember.

But she was no fool to forget the ones of actual importance. The names of those who ranked high enough to be worthy as her husband.

Joffrey of house Baratheon.

But he was too dreadful. Boasting of his weapons of war and hunt, and the collection of beasts’ heads he had hanging along his chamber walls.

Loras of house Tyrell.

Handsome and kind. Also apparently not interested in women. His eyes never wandered below her neck when they danced, only elsewhere where curiously, only lords lingered.

Robin of house Arryn.

Too young.

Edmure of house Tully.

Too old.

But all that, she kept to herself. What were her thoughts even worth in her own betrothal?

Trystane Martell.

An almost obvious choice.

Nephew to the queen, cousin to the late prince, and a prince of Dorne in his own right.

He didn’t strike her as cruel, he was close to her age, and the subtle way his eyes swept over her body was enough to tell her he wanted her as a man would want a woman.

To the eyes of the kingdom, he was the perfect candidate.

To her, he was the perfect husband, or at least, that’s what she was supposed to think. There wasn’t anything to complain about him, the silk of his voice, the charm and wit of his speech, and his attractiveness was undeniable.

But again, like a mockingbird to her ears, he went on and on thay he’d never seen anything so beautiful as her violet eyes and silver hair.

“I beg to be pardoned, my lord.” She managed, although her head was spinning.

“Have I caused offence, princess?”

“Not at all." She assured him with a smile she forced with all her grace. "I just need some fresh air. My lord.” She curtsied, then hurried away without waiting for a response, refusing to give him the chance to offer his company.

She was almost running, worried she’d be stopped or followed. She needed to get away. The longer she stayed, the more she felt like she was suffocating.

And then she realized she really _was_ suffocating.

She slowed her step to a halt and doubled over, the music of the feast now far behind her and muffled, the bright chandelier lights of the great hall now a faint soft glow from where she stood.

She was rasping for air, her corset coiling tighter around her with every breath she took. She clawed at the laces along her spine, picking and pulling but to no avail. She was sobbing, she realized as tears stung her eyes.

"Are you all right?...”

She jumped, startled by the low, accented voice. She spun on her heel, coming face to face with the stranger.

His dark grey eyes widened upon meeting hers, in recognition.

"Your grace” he added hastily. For a moment, but only for a moment, he looked like wanted to bolt from sight. That was a new, surprising reaction, but she had no care to ponder on that.

"Help me out of this garment” she commanded, desperate. 

"What?"

She had no more patience for false courtesies.

"Seven hells- just tear it off!" She half-screamed, turning her back to him and bending over, her palms flat on the stone parapet in front of her and her head bowed low.

He had the wit to do as he was told. Strong hands gripped the fabric of her dress, his knuckles pressed against her shoulder blades, the sensation of which sent a shock of delight down her spine.

In the next moment, she heard and felt her dress rip open from behind her, and she sucked in all the air her lungs could take in.

She heaved and heaved, as if she'd been holding her breath for hours and days. Her heart pounded in her chest, finally having room to properly beat.

When the relief seeped out of her body, anger took its place. She was angry at everyone and everything. At Littlefinger, at the lordlings, at Aegon most of all, who was so foolish to die and let everything spiral into chaos.

But she couldn't take out her frustrations on men who talked over her nor on the dead. She could only yank off the ruin of her dress, and stomp and kick at it as if all the fault was woven into its thread,then gather them all up and toss them over the parapet.

It landed far below on the rocks, spread out like a sparkling pool of blood. She was huffing from the exertion. When a breeze blew at her bare skin, she finally realized that she now wore only a light shift, and that she had male company.

She whipped her head around to lock eyes with the stranger, who had the grace to turn away and blush.

"You think I've gone mad." She accused boldly, her emotions still high and rushing through her.

"I do not."

"It is a crime to lie to the princess. I could have your tongue for it."

It was his reaction, doe-eyed and mouth agape, that broke her into sudden laughter. This boy was so serious and humorless, so unlike the ones she'd been entertaining the past hours, and for some reason she found it hilarious. Or maybe she'd just really gone mad.

His face grew red, but in response he merely cleared his throat and unclasped his furlined cloak from his shoulders. "You must be cold, your grace." He said sincerely, draping the fabric around her shoulders, taking care not to linger longer than was necessary.

She pulled the cloak around her tighter, grateful, finally feeling a rush of embarrassment course through her. "What a proper lord you are."

"I'm afraid I'm not a lord."

That surprised her. The whole of King's Landing was honoring the late prince tonight, but only the noble lords and ladies and their sons and daughters feasted up here high on the castle grounds. A servant perhaps, but he was too finely dressed, and upon closer inspection, much too handsome to be serving. His looks could earn him higher coin under a different trade.

"I suppose it doesn't matter. I should be grateful then, that you're not required to compliment my eyes and hair and ask me to dance."

It was his turn to laugh, though curtly.

It struck her as rude, so she arched an eyebrow at him expectantly.

"Apologies your grace. It's just funny that I came out here for some air, to gather the courage to do just that," he glanced her way and finished, "compliment your eyes and hair and ask you to dance."

Strangely, she wasn't appalled by the notion. Not if it was him.

"And whose house do you serve, sir?"

The question seemed to drain the blood from his face.

"I-I...." he mumbled, looking away.

"Jon!"

He whipped around in response to the call.

Following his gaze, she found Robb Stark, whom she'd conversed with only shortly before being whisked away by Trystane, approach them. He stopped in the middle of his step upon noticing her.

"Your grace." Robb bowed courteously. If he was surprised at her state of dress, he didn't show it. Turning back to the man he called Jon, he said "My father is looking for you." Uneasily, he continued, "He said the king would like to see you."

They bowed and begged her for their leave, then strode back to the great hall side by side.

Only then did she notice the numbness that crept into her bones as truth dawned on her. His name, his northern burr, his familiarity with the Stark boy, and the fact that Rhaegar knew him and wished to speak to him.

What could her brother possibly want to do with his bastard?

What purpose would it serve for the bastard to compliment her and dance with her?

Then she remembered her dream, a bastard that came with a dooming fire.

And Jon Snow wasn't an ordinary bastard. He was the son of a dragon king.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot more was planned to happen in this chapter, but I got tired haha.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!
> 
> (Oh, if you're into modern AU Jonerys, feel free to check out my ongoing multi-chapter fic, Taboo)


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